


tête-à-tête

by quillsand



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Child Cosette, Gen, Parent Valjean, Past Child Abuse, There's no character tag for Catherine but there should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillsand/pseuds/quillsand
Summary: It’d been a few months since their arrival in Paris and Cosette was as happy as she could ever remember being. The man she’d come to call her father never made her clean or sweep or fetch water when it was cold outside. He never hit her or raised his voice or made her sleep on the floor. The absence of these behaviours was all it took to endear him to her, and she woke each day with a warmth in her heart and a song on her lips.***For Cosette week 2020!
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent & Jean Valjean
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	tête-à-tête

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during the chapters that follow Valjean adopting Cosette when they're living in the Gorbeau house, specifically between 2.4.4 and 2.4.5. Obviously we're dealing with Cosette who has only been free from the Thenardiers for a couple of months at this point, so here is your content warning for references to past child abuse.
> 
> (I've put the chapter excerpts that inspired this in the end notes if anyone is interested!)

It’d been a few months since their arrival in Paris and Cosette was as happy as she could ever remember being. The man she’d come to call her father never made her clean or sweep or fetch water when it was cold outside. He never hit her or raised his voice or made her sleep on the floor. The absence of these behaviours was all it took to endear him to her, and she woke each day with a warmth in her heart and a song on her lips. 

How lovely it was to wake up and not be made to sweep floors! Sometimes she would wake up and reach for her broom before remembering it was no longer necessary, and the shock of it would force her to sit back down. Once recovered, her newfound joy would then return, as she realised she was free to do whatever she pleased. She was not made to work and thus could devote all her time to Catherine, who spent every moment by her side and was Cosette's greatest friend in the world. 

When her father woke, he would always prepare them a large breakfast- larger than Cosette was used to and which she still struggled to eat, but which succeeded in filling her stomach. She was growing used to eating more and more, and she was beginning to forget what it was to go hungry. 

They were enjoying such a breakfast one morning towards the end of Winter when her father spoke.

“Cosette,” his voice, by now familiar and well-loved, had been soft, “I am going out alone this evening. Mme. Bougon will watch you.”

Cosette had been disappointed to hear the news; she liked the walks with her father when it had grown dark, for they formed her only glimpses of the city she now called her home. She didn't know much about Paris other than what she had observed on their walks together, and the trips had become her favourite part of the day. Although he took her with him most nights, there were some nights they didn’t go at all, and even rarer still, nights when he left on his own. Tonight was, apparently, to be one of those rarer nights. 

After breakfast her father had read to her, and she’d practised her handwriting, repeating the lesson to Catherine afterwards. Cosette enjoyed being taught, but she especially loved to teach. Hours later, she was still engaged in the process of showing Catherine the alphabet when her father stood up to leave.

“I will be back soon,” he told Cosette, lifting her hand in his as he prepared to leave. Cosette had learnt not to flinch away from the contact and instead squeezed his hand back as she bid him goodbye. 

There was always a distant fear in her whenever she watched her father’s retreating figure out of their small window. Fear that he would forget to return, or be hurt on his walk. Fear that she would be alone again with only the nosy old lady from downstairs for company. Fear that Madame would return before her father and snatch her back to the inn. 

Cosette shivered, even though she was perfectly warm in her new clothes. She went back to Catherine at the side of the room, for the doll had always provided her with comfort. From those strange first days when she wasn’t sure what to make of the man who had taken her away to Paris, it had been easy to take Catherine in her arms and remind herself that it was he who had gifted her to Cosette, that his kindness meant he wouldn’t harm her.

It unsettled her to hear their rooms so quiet, and so she began to speak to Catherine, as she often did when alone. Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper, but it made the silence more bearable. Catherine was a brilliant conversational partner. 

This was how she occupied herself for the hour or so it took for her father to return. She had just decided to take up reading one of the books her father had given her for use in their lessons when there was a familiar knock at the door. 

“Father!” she jumped up, running over as the door swung open to reveal his figure. “You’re back!”

“Of course.”

“You were gone for so long this time! We were getting worried!”

Her father smiled down at her. “I am back now, Cosette.”

“Good!” Cosette pronounced, running back and returning to her book. Maybe if she asked, he would read to her again. Cosette could read, but she still struggled putting the words together and it was much nicer when her father read them out for her, his voice making the lines easier to understand. She smiled, the plan forming. Yes, she would ask him to read to her and he would say yes and they could pass the evening nicely inside.

But her father was not in the room anymore when Cosette looked up. “Father?” she asked, craning her neck round into the small room opposite her own. 

Her father didn’t look up when she entered and Cosette frowned. “Father?” she asked again. “What is the matter?”

His head snapped up, as if only then becoming aware of her presence. “Cosette,” he muttered softly. “Nothing is the matter. You should be in bed.”

“Bed!” she exclaimed, as if the idea were reprehensible. “We haven’t yet eaten, it can’t be time for bed!”

As soon as the words had left her tongue she bit it. Those same words, uttered only a few months prior, would have gotten her a beating. Cosette looked down, feeling shame wash over her as tears prickled her eyes. 

Her father said nothing. When Cosette looked back up he was staring vacantly ahead, as if he was looking past her. “Of course,” he muttered softly.

He stood. Cosette flinched away automatically, but he did not come towards her. Instead, he walked around her, retrieving some bread and cheese from a bag. Cosette watched as he brought plates down and set their modest table. 

“Come,” he said softly. “Let’s eat.”

Cosette did as she was bid, feeling silly at her actions and disliking the sad look that had taken residence in her father’s eyes. He seemed distracted by something and Cosette couldn’t think what. She hoped it wasn’t anything to do with her or why she hadn't been permitted to accompany him on his walk. 

They said grace and ate in silence, the table devoid of the usual chatter she had come to expect from mealtimes. Once she could eat no more Cosette excused herself, hoping to execute her earlier plan of getting her father to read for her. When she returned, the table was cleared of plates but her father still sat there, head in his hands. 

Cosette wilted. She was perceptive by nature, and she knew something to be wrong. She had observed it many times when Monsieur had deemed himself cheated by a customer or when Madame had been unsatisfied with her cleaning. Her father never responded as they did, with blows and insults, but he did get quiet when something was troubling him. He didn’t tell Cosette of his problems when she asked, and so she didn’t know what it was he worried about, but she knew they must be grave fears to be troubling him so. These occasional moods didn't instil fear in her the way that they would have if it were Madame she was dealing with, but she didn't much like them either. She preferred her father when he was smiling his kind smile and telling her stories before bed. 

Abandoning her plan to ask him to read to her, Cosette instead went and fetched Catherine. “We are going to cheer up father,” she whispered to the doll.

Cosette took Catherine to a spot on the floor from which she had full view of the table and began to laugh loudly, as if Catherine had just told her a hilarious joke. Cosette whispered back hurriedly and leant down to hear another joke, giggling after a short pause. She often had such conversations with Catherine, though most were far more private. Privacy, however, was quite beside the point on this occasion. 

Cosette continued in this vein for a half-hour, glancing up every few minutes to observe her father’s reaction. He had stopped staring at the table and now watched her, though his gaze always slid away when she looked up. Cosette smiled to herself, before laughing once more at another joke. 

It was the simple logic of a child; her father always seemed happiest when she was happy, and therefore Cosette endeavoured to be as happy as possible in an attempt to bring back his smile.

“Really?” she asked the doll a few minutes later, raising her voice above a whisper. She glanced back at her father, who was staring back, bemused. “Yes,” Cosette said to Catherine. “It is a good idea.”

She then turned to face him. “Father,” she called, “would you like to join us? Catherine is telling such wonderful stories.”

Her father stared back, puzzlement clear on his expression. “I would not want to intrude on your _tête-à-tête_ ,” he said politely.

Cosette huffed. “You will not,” she declared, gesturing to Catherine as proof. “Catherine has asked me to tell you the story she just told me.”

Her father smiled, just slightly. It was a wonderful thing to see and Cosette felt that familiar warmth in her chest light up again. “Well,” he said slowly, “then I suppose I must.”

Cosette nodded, satisfied as her father joined her and Catherine on the floor. She told him the story, which was really just the book she and Catherine had been reading earlier, detailing the adventures of the characters within. Her father smiled as she spoke, his eyes flitting between her and Catherine as the tale went on. Cosette was pleased. 

Eventually, her recount faltered, for she had not yet read the ending of the story. Of course, not wanting to lose her progress in restoring her father’s happiness, she continued on, trying to imagine how the story would end and telling it as if it were truth.

Her father noticed when she began to struggle, however. “Did Catherine tell you how the story ends?” he asked when she paused for breath. 

Cosette hesitated. “No,” she admitted softly.

Her father smiled, warm and bright. “Shall we see if we can figure it out? Maybe there’s a book around here that could help us...”

Cosette beamed, then leaned towards Catherine, cupping her ear to the doll's mouth. “She says there is,” she reported back. “She says that’s where she got the story from.”

“Does she know where the rest of the story is?”

Cosette consulted Catherine again, nodding throughout the exchange. “She does.” 

And with that, Cosette went to fetch the previously abandoned book. Her father smiled when she brought it over and she settled into his lap as he opened it at her bookmark, Catherine safely in her arms as he began to read. 

Soon, Cosette began to grow tired. Having brought her father out of his darkness, she was able to rest easier, her previous state of contentment returning to her as she listened to his soft words. There was no longer a hardness in his eyes, no longer a sadness in the set of his shoulders. He rocked her gently as he read and Cosette yawned, her eyes drifting shut as she clutched Catherine tighter. Her father was happy once more, and therefore so was she.

It was like this that Cosette fell asleep, safe and happy and loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter excerpts:
> 
> "Jean Valjean was prudent enough never to go out by day. Every evening, at twilight, he walked for an hour or two, sometimes alone, often with Cosette, seeking the most deserted side alleys of the boulevard, and entering churches at nightfall. He liked to go to Saint-Médard, which is the nearest church. When he did not take Cosette with him, she remained with the old woman; but the child’s delight was to go out with the good man. She preferred an hour with him to all her rapturous tête-à-têtes with Catherine. He held her hand as they walked, and said sweet things to her." - Victor Hugo, 2.4.4
> 
> "One evening, as Jean Valjean was passing by, when he had not Cosette with him, he saw the beggar in his usual place, beneath the lantern which had just been lighted. The man seemed engaged in prayer, according to his custom, and was much bent over. Jean Valjean stepped up to him and placed his customary alms in his hand. The mendicant raised his eyes suddenly, stared intently at Jean Valjean, then dropped his head quickly. This movement was like a flash of lightning. Jean Valjean was seized with a shudder. It seemed to him that he had just caught sight, by the light of the street lantern, not of the placid and beaming visage of the old beadle, but of a well-known and startling face. He experienced the same impression that one would have on finding one’s self, all of a sudden, face to face, in the dark, with a tiger. He recoiled, terrified, petrified, daring neither to breathe, to speak, to remain, nor to flee, staring at the beggar who had dropped his head, which was enveloped in a rag, and no longer appeared to know that he was there. At this strange moment, an instinct—possibly the mysterious instinct of self-preservation,—restrained Jean Valjean from uttering a word. The beggar had the same figure, the same rags, the same appearance as he had every day. “Bah!” said Jean Valjean, “I am mad! I am dreaming! Impossible!” And he returned profoundly troubled." - Victor Hugo, 2.4.5
> 
> Thanks for reading! Here's the part where I ask for comments/kudos and tell you you can find me on tumblr @thelawsofdaylight!


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